


Under Your Spell

by kayisdreaming



Series: Odin Sphere Ficlets [2]
Category: Odin Sphere
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Self-Doubt, i was just tired of most of their relationship stuff being sex I just want romance guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: In which Oswald questions the ethics of letting Gwendolyn think she's still under a love spell.Oh and brushes her hair.





	Under Your Spell

_I do not mind if my emotions have been caused by a spell_.

Her words had made Oswald’s heart soar at the time. No, it was not her words, but the mere fact that she had shunned any idea of separation before the offer had left his mouth. It was those words now that made him uneasy, despite her continued presence at his side.

If he thought about it, he had always told himself that he loved Melvin. When he was young, it was because the man was the only one who would take him in. Among the fairies, Melvin was the only one who would look at him. Oswald hadn’t loved him then, but told himself that he must—only a rotten child would be ungrateful. As he was older and more was asked of him, he reminded himself of such to combat any doubt. In time, he had let that consume him entirely. If he had not convinced himself that he must love his false father, then perhaps his devotion might not have corrupted him. 

Was he forcing Gwendolyn to follow in his footsteps? He had told himself that he would never force her to stay, to be used as his possession like they both had been used their whole lives. And yet . . . and yet he did not tell her that the spell had no bearing on her heart. He still let her think that the spell would force her to love him. Her words made it clear of her conviction that it was true. And, if the spell had failed, he imagined that she might convince herself that it _must_ , and thus would make herself love him.

But she said she did not mind.

He let out a breath, hoping it was inaudible enough. He did not wish to disturb Gwendolyn in her quiet meditation as she carefully cleaned and tended to her armor. He watched her with complete awe and reverence, chin in his palm and attention focused entirely on her. She was so meticulous in her movements. Every piece was polished to perfection, every ridge and decoration on the metal brought to a proper shine. Her eyebrows knitted together, lips turned down just slightly when her graceful fingers did not properly express what she envisioned.

His lips turned up into a gentle smile as he recalled the first time she had caught him watching. She had been so utterly bewildered and flustered, the armor slipping from her hands and words so lost to her, that he was certain that he had utterly ruined everything. He must have apologized with every breath, at least until she had controlled her blushes enough to speak.

She wasn’t used to the attention. She didn’t know what to do with it. Even now, he could see the traces of pink on her cheeks. She had been confused at what she _should_ do, and was even more bewildered when he had told her that she need only do as usual—as it just made him fall in love with her even more than he thought possible. Her expression had truly been the loveliest thing.

“Oswald.”

The sound of his name instantly brought him back to attention. Gwendolyn was no longer in her chair, but standing before him, the armor left forgotten for the moment. If he reached just half an arm’s length away, he could take her skirt in his hands and kiss it with the affection that he was still too anxious to give her. Perhaps he could take the hand she had half-extended with the intention to touch him to attention, and dare to present that affection to her skin there, instead.

Instead, he stayed still, looking up at her. “Yes?”

“Might I ask a favor of you?” She asked, her gaze downcast, but not toward him.

“For you, I would do anything.” He offered her a smile, though she would not see it if she did not look.

“Tis nothing so demanding.” She muttered. Pink graced her cheeks once more, and she laced her fingers together. Her thumbs brushed over each other in a seemingly idle motion, one he could not help but he fascinated with.

“Even so.”

“I . . .” the blush went even darker, “Might you help brush my hair?”

He blinked, surprised by the request.

Noting his reaction, she continued. He was sure her gaze could pierce the floor at this moment, if she so willed it. “Myris has since made it her task, but . . . she’s gone to the Pooka village for the day. And I . . .”

Oswald reached and took her hand, smiling softly. She twitched a bit at the contact, but did not pull away, though he left his hold loose enough to allow it. It did seem to ease her enough to look at him. “It would be my pleasure.”

Rather quickly, she had pulled him to her mirror, as if afraid that he might change his mind. Her fingers brushed over the teeth of her brush as he removed his greaves, eyes flicking between his hands and his face. He wondered what might be running through her mind.

When the brush was in his hand, he took to the task. She faced the mirror, allowing him enough space to gather and brush her rather impressively-lengthy locks. It was so soft in his hands, which made him certain that it required like tenderness in his care. It was difficult, though, almost deceptive in simplicity of care. He could not recall the last time he had struggled so with something that should be easy. And he most certainly couldn’t fathom how she would be able to do this and put her hair in that braided crown. Likely some of Myris’ pooka magic.

“You’ve not much experience with this.” Gwendolyn said, her voice soft.

His hands stilled immediately. “Have I pulled too much?” He could not have failed this so quickly.

“The opposite.” She turned slightly to face him, eyes shining with amusement. “I’ve never had someone so gentle.”

He held a moment, feeling his heart in his chest. Swallowing, he began the slow process of brushing her hair once more. He focused on his task, unsure if he had enough fortitude to see that expression on her face. “Is it typical to treat it so roughly?”

She was quiet for a moment, turning her head to watch him in the reflection. “For Valkyrie, yes. It must be tight to prevent liability in battle. That requires . . . a certain hand.”

This whole affair confused him. The fairies made few attempts to control their hair, and in those cases, it was only for preference. They never seemed to suffer for it in battle. It actually seemed to be a rather intimate thing between them, a moment of kindness and favor. Was it so different with the Valkyrie?

He pressed his lips together. “Was no one ever kind there?”

Gwendolyn was quiet. She brought her hands together in her lap. “Myris tried. Once, the kindness lasted through to completion.” Her fingers toyed with her skirt. “Only once. I needed reminder that battle took priority over . . . kindness.”

Oswald was quiet, even more tender now than he had been. He could not fathom why she had needed to choose between them. Out of armor, like this, she was a sight to behold—but still so deadly. And in armor, fierce in the battlefield, she was still beautiful. Couldn’t she have both?

“I do not see why you cannot possess both. And, should neither choice appeal, you could choose another path.” His expression fell slightly, as he became more lost in his focus. “I would never force you to choose.”

But he was, wasn’t he? The thought struck him as sharp as a spear. He was forcing her to choose whether she would allow the false spell to influence her or not. He knew that he hoped that she might choose a spell’s love and a real one, and not one over the other. But what if she chose something else, if she ever knew the truth?

He grimaced; those thoughts should have left him by now. Gwendolyn silenced his mind and stoked his heart—why was he still so bothered by it? Why did it fill his mind and heart with such dread?

He glanced up at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were closed, the smallest smile on her face. She seemed to be at peace, relaxed by his movements. Her fingers had untangled themselves from her skirt, and rested easily. He wanted to let this peace last. To give her that which she so deserved.

Oswald felt her name roll off his tongue with the affection for her that filled his very being. “Gwendolyn.” He knew he would regret this. “May I ask a question?”

She hummed, eyes still closed. “Of course.”

His jaw clenched, and he found he could not focus on brushing her hair properly. He put the brush down on the desk before her, watching as she looked at it in confusion. She looked up at him, and he had to look away to give himself the will to speak.

“Were it not for the spell, would you love me?”

In the corner of his eye, he could see her entire body shift to face him. He could not see her expression, and, at the moment, he was too uncertain not to. He wanted her to love him. Wanted it more than anything. But he also wanted an ease to his fears.

She was quiet for a long time, almost too long. He was certain, with every moment that passed, that her answer would be more and more unfavorable. He gripped the back of her chair, the contact painful without his greaves.

“I like to think I would.” She said, tone level. There was just the slightest tremble to it that she had when she was flustered. “No one has ever been so kind, so sweet, so gentle. No one has sacrificed so much for me, and who I know would do more. No one who I know I would sacrifice everything for. The very thought . . . makes my heart swell.”

He opened his mouth, but could not come to words.

She continued. “Perhaps ‘tis the spell’s influence. Even without it, duty would have kept me here. And, I believe, those traits that define your love for me would have made me love you in time.”

He could barely breathe with those words. His chest felt tight, his limbs heavy. All he wanted to hear was that she loved him, and here it was. So why was it still so painful?

No, he knew why. “And if I told you . . . there truly had been no spell that held your heart?”

She stilled. “Truly?”

He could only manage a nod. Now he would know. He would know if it was real love, or something she had imposed on herself. If she would leave, or stay by his side. He could hear her rise from her seat, but that was still little indication of her choice. Would she fly away, free from her cage?

He felt her hands on his face, cupping each cheek with the tenderness of one afraid they might break that which they cherish. The same tenderness he regarded as necessary for her. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, fists clenched tighter into the wood.

“The stars would still die before I stopped loving you.” She used her touch to tilt his head toward her, a movement he did not resist. Her expression was sincere, eyes alight with a fierceness of the determination to drive his doubts away.

In a swift movement, he pulled her into his arms. He buried his face into her shoulder, felt her hair brush against his forehead. He knew he did not deserve this. But he also knew he would never release a love he did not need to force himself to have, and did not force another to return.


End file.
